had occurred to him. "Why, Phil, my boy," he cried, slapping
his own thigh, "we'll put a great game up on thy dad.
We'll show him he's not the only fox hereabout."

"And what 'ere 's that?'

"What say ye to being my double in the poll, lad?"

"Run against father?" ejaculated Phil.

"Ay. We'll teach him to what trimming and time-serving
come. And be damned to him!"

"That 'ere 's all very well for you," responded Hennion,
"but he hain't got the whip hand of you like he has of me.
He would n't stand my--"

"He 'd have to," gleefully interrupted the squire. "Join
hands with me, lad, and I'll fix it so ye can snap your fingers
at him."

"But--" began Phil.

"But," broke in the squire. "Nonsense! No but, lad.
Butter--ay, and cream it shall be. Let him turn ye off.
There's a home at Greenwood for ye, if he does--and something
better than that too. Sixteen, ye dog! Sweet sixteen,
rosy sixteen, bashful sixteen, glowing sixteen, run-away-and-want-to-be-found
sixteen!"